


Advice and Anguish

by crepesamillion



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Feelings Realization, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 23:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17334296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crepesamillion/pseuds/crepesamillion
Summary: Wilson never wanted to ask for counsel, but only Wickerbottom's words could ease the worries that kept him awake so late at night. ჯ One-shot.





	Advice and Anguish

**Author's Note:**

> The more I think about it, the more I believe that there's some great similarities between Wilson and Wicker that they could bond over, and as for their differences, those could play off each other well. Wilson really needs someone sensible to bring him back to reality sometimes.

Wilson stared through the top of the tent. Where the three supporting poles were bundled together with strips of brown grass, moonlight leaked through, pale and wet. The beefalo hide, cured by the sun and scraped and stretched taut across the poles, gleamed silver.

Dirt was hard and cold as cracked pavement under his back. Pain swelled and ebbed through his spine. He kept his hands folded on his chest, crunching his locked fingers together until his wrists ached.  
  
Breathe slow and even. Inhales equal to exhales. In. Out. He’d drift asleep soon. All he had to do was focus on the repetitive counting of seconds between breaths, the same way he did when anxiety rattled him.  
  
Cold air stung his nose, deep in his skull, down to the sinuses. His eyes watered. He squeezed them shut.  
  
Don’t think. Don’t think. What time was it? He breathed in and held the sharp air in his lungs. One. Two. Three. He blew out the breath thin and fragile through his dry lips.  
  
Probably past midnight. The sun had just started to dip behind the trees when he excused himself by casual mention of a persistent headache and retired to the tent. Hours ago. Not too long after he had—  
  
He gritted his teeth. No. He wasn’t going to think about it. Not about the events of the day. Not about what Willow had said. Not about how everyone had glared at him as though he were algae scraped off the sides of an old tin cup. Not about how they’d avoided him with the same persistence of oil oozing away from water.  
  
He tilted his head. Grass prickled against his cheek.  
  
Silence. No voices murmuring outside. Gradually they had faded as everyone sifted away from the campfire to their own tents and bedrolls. The night was as quiet and somber as a church during a funeral prayer.  
  
His stomach twisted. Why had he thought of that?  
  
A few cicadas buzzed like a bow scratching the wrong way over rusty violin strings. Muffled, as if in a dream. Water slapped against the riverbanks. Leaves rustled overhead. Occasionally a branch snapped in the fire.  
  
Fire. Wilson jabbed his elbows into the dirt and propped himself up. The inklings of drowsiness scattered like startled sheep. Was anyone tending the campfire? A throb of panic stabbed like an icicle. He rocked forward on his heels and fumbled for the dangling edges of the hide while dizzy rainbows swam through his head.  
  
He lifted the heavy hide over his head like a curtain and squinted. The panic drained away. Sweat oozed from his hands, leaving them clammy around the beefalo hide.  
  
A red blaze still wavered from the heap of brush, shooting upwards then squatting before licking at the sky again. Embers floated on the breeze like lava fireflies. Orange light rippled, washing into blue shadows. On one of the half-rotten birch logs perched Wickerbottom.  
  
Comfort packed into Wilson’s heart like fresh cotton. Why had he worried? Wickerbottom rarely slept. Of course she would watch over the fire. Darkness could never creep up while she was around.  
  
He lowered his head to catch his breath, then glanced up again. Had she noticed him yet? She kept her nose wedged in the book that she held, split open in front of her face like a wall between her and the world.  
  
What was it so entrancing to watch her read? Maybe it was the way she gripped the book. Not like a schoolgirl hedging, fearful that the book might snap shut on her fingers with the force of a beartrap, but like a poised interrogator demanding knowledge. Maybe it was how she was so immersed in the text that her posture curved, drawn to the book as by a magnet. Maybe it was how she reached up, ready to thrust her spectacles back onto the bridge of her nose with a flourish, but instead only fluttered her fingers at the frame before sweeping her hand to the book, unable to keep away from it.  
  
Wilson blinked. Had he been staring at her this entire time? He averted his gaze. The afterimage of the fire smeared purple and green through the darkness.  
  
Wickerbottom seemed so . . . controlled. Calm. Composed. It was almost funny. Almost. He’d spent the night tossing without repose, too plagued with guilt and unrest for sleep. All the while, Wickerbottom remained collected as ever. Chiseled marble weathered and changed more than she did.  
  
Wilson’s eyes stung and flooded. Huh. Allergies. The beefalo hide must be speckled with dander. He rubbed his eyelid, crinkling the tender skin until veins of color snaked behind it.  
  
“Higgsbury? What are you doing up this late?” The _thunk_ of a heavy book snapping shut.  
  
Wilson’s breath snagged in his throat. He adjusted the sharp inhale to a yawn and dug into his eye with a bit more persistence. Something wet smeared over his fingers.  
  
“Oh! Hi, Ms. Wickerbottom.” He meandered his hand behind his back. Wickerbottom assessed him in her musing way, one finger at her spectacles.  
  
Wilson dropped his gaze to the ground. “I was . . . err . . . well, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”  
  
“You aren’t intending any attempts to provide unnecessary alterations to our research station again, are you dear?”  
  
Her voice was almost teasing, light as a honeycrisp apple, but it wedged a stake of guilt through Wilson’s ribs. He clutched his fist behind his back to grasp for composure. He cranked up a smile. Why would she bring that up? As though it were only a silly mistake to brush aside and titter about? Acid churned in his gut, souring up the stew of mashed carrots and pin cherries and rubbery rabbit flank.  
  
“I—I didn’t—I couldn’t sleep.”  
  
Wickerbottom’s face softened. “You poor dear. I understand the discomfort. I do hope I wasn’t keeping you awake.”  
  
“No!” His voice shot out louder than he’d expected. He snapped his teeth together with a click that cracked his jaw. “No, not at all. Of course not.” His protests broke up into a couple of stilted little laughs. “Must be one of those nights. Things on the mind. You know how it is. We’re people of science, after all. Great minds don’t rest.”  
  
He clamped his mouth shut to seal back the deluge of stammering words. His nerves buzzed.  
  
Wickerbottom didn’t hum one of her polite laughs. She didn’t even nod. She watched him over the rims of her glasses as though he were an amoeba under the microscope.  
  
He examined the grass around his shoes and scuffed the side of his oxford through a clot of clover. Pearly blue. Pink blossoms bursting like fireworks. Almost glowed under the moonlight. Dew would glitter on the leaves like crystals by the time the sun rose. Was she still staring at him?  
  
The log creaked when Wickerbottom moved.  
  
“Would you care to talk about anything, dear?”  
  
Wilson looked up. Wickerbottom lowered her hand to the space on the log beside her with a couple of brisk pats. It could have been either an invitation or an order.  
  
“Discussions are healthy for scientists,” she said. A smile twitched at the corner of her lips. “Simply introducing thoughts to the open air can do wonders. If you wish to share anything, you are more than welcome to do so.”  
  
An itch welled up in Wilson’s throat and settled behind his tonsils. He swallowed. The itch stayed. He worked up one of his most winsome smiles. Maybe Wickerbottom wouldn’t see the film of water that fogged up his eyes.  
  
“There’s nothing much to discuss, but company doesn’t sound too bad.” His voice hung on the “bad” and cracked like a china dish against concrete. “I mean, might as well enjoy it! While it lasts. Uh, peace and quiet, that is, I meant say—I mean, I meant to say.”  
  
“Sit.”  
  
A nonnegotiable order. Wilson ducked his head and took measured steps. If his strides were steady enough, Wickerbottom wouldn’t notice how his knees wobbled and his tendons turned to pudding. He dropped to the log beside her a millisecond before his legs buckled.  
  
Silence overtook the night again. Dense and smothering. Like fog. Wilson glanced askew. Wickerbottom traced the gilded letters on the cover of her book. They might have once spelled out _The End is Nigh_ but now were worn away to spell _he Ends Nil.  
  
_Wilson folded his hands and let them dangle between his knees. A numbness crept like gangrene up his arms.  
_  
_ “It’s been nice weather for autumn lately, huh?” The nicety barreled out, diving off his tongue before he could gulp it back.  
  
“I’m afraid cold air isn’t always a particularly optimum condition for one’s joints.”  
  
“Oh! Err, sorry.” Wilson laughed, then froze. What idiot coined the term “putting one’s foot in his mouth”? If only he wedged his shoe between his teeth, he’d save himself several generous helpings of embarrassment. But Wickerbottom didn’t scold.  
  
The echo of his laugh rippled through the air like a dying shout in a cave.  
  
Wilson fidgeted. He pressed his knees together, pinning his hands between them. The pressure made static crackle under his skin. Why didn’t Wickerbottom say anything? Or coax him to admit why he couldn’t sleep? She’d already mentioned the disaster with the research station. Recalling the situation seemed to almost amuse her. Did she realize what had happened? Or she wanted him to marinate in the guilt that had already been pickling his heart all night; an unspoken “go and think about what you’ve done” demand.  
  
The idea was as ridiculous as suggesting Willow’s daily solo treks deep into the woods were to make needlepoint pillow cushions for everyone.  
  
“There’s no rush, dear.” Wickerbottom’s voice came as quiet as the flit of a butterfly. “If you would prefer to sit in silent company, that’s fine as well.”  
  
That tenderness, the note of concern in the “dear”—his heart was as strong as a wet tissue. He sagged forward like a bag of flour, shoulders sinking, too heavy to keep straight anymore.  
  
He wasn’t eloquent. He was a scientist. Not a speaker. How was he supposed to even begin to confide?  
  
“Ms. Wickerbottom . . . ?” He laced his fingers together over and over, twisting and clenching. “Do you . . . do you believe that innovation is too risky when you’re heading a group?”  
  
She hummed. Maybe in surprise. “In other cases, I would respond with a resounding ‘no.’ But, as in many cases, context is necessary before giving an opinion.”  
  
Wilson winced. Context. Prodding for context? She _knew_ the context. She had stood by the cluster of white firs mere yards away as it happened. She always toted a book to absorb herself, but nevertheless nothing seemed to escape her attention.  
  
So what did she want him to say? Why wouldn’t she offer advice instead of cornering him into admitting his own faults and failure? Why wouldn’t she give some sign of understanding? Why wouldn’t she at least scold him?  
  
Anything would be better than admitting it himself. Anything. Anything would be better than looking into her face, with her fond and mild “dear”s filling his head and warming his cheeks, to confess nothing but recklessness and obstinance and pride. Stupidity. Frustration collected and rocketed like mercury in a thermometer on a sweltering summer afternoon.  
  
“Context,” he repeated. “Context, Ms. Wickerbottom? You mean, context in the fact that everyone in this camp has entertained themselves all day with fantasies of my sudden unexplained disappearance?”  
  
Wickerbottom blinked. “Dear, that’s not—"  
  
“Or how about a similar favor, huh? Context for everyone thinking I’m an idiot who doesn’t care about anyone else? Snubbing me like I’m diseased? Acting like I’m some kind of quack scientist who ruins everything I’ve ever gotten my hands on?”  
  
“Now, dear, that’s quite—”  
  
“I’d be surprised if anyone speaks to me for a week. We’d gotten this far already. This far, and look what happens! I knew what I was doing. I’ve built plenty of things before. I wanted to see if I could add a mechanical oscillator. Tesla did it. Why can’t I? It only needed a little tweaking. I thought that would work. What’s the harm in seeing if it would help?  
  
“Then Willow argued that it was fine, and Winona told me to not dare touch it because apparently she still holds that ridiculous thing with the broken icebox over my head. I wanted to prove that I knew what to do because I’m _tired_ of being treated like a middle-schooler with a baking soda volcano. They were all watching me. Snapping at me. I got upset and flustered and I couldn’t concentrate and I ruined it. It’s totaled. Winter is half a week away and our only research station can’t even roll out a spare pair of earmuffs. And everyone knows it’s my fault and that we’d be better off if I weren’t—”  
  
He faltered. A weight settled in his stomach, crushing organs as it sank lower. He crumpled forward, digging his elbows into his knees and pressing his face into his hands. He blew a long, shaky breath through his fingers.  
  
“Sorry.” He tried to laugh; a curt puff of a chuckle to stamp on his rant before he scoffed it away, thanked Wickerbottom for her time, and escaped to the solace of his tent again until tomorrow evening or the day after. But the laugh broke. His throat tightened like a stripped screw until words could barely fit through.  
  
Why had he said so much? The itch crept upward. He swallowed, but it stuck like a burr.  
  
“I don’t know why I’m so . . . stubborn—" His lungs hiccupped. He seized a sharp breath that split into a ragged sob.  
  
No. _No._ He couldn’t cry. No. Not in front of Wickerbottom. Not in front of anyone. He shoved his nose deeper into his hands and jostled a goopy cough from the middle of his chest. He wasn’t crying. He’d only coughed. Smoke from the shimmering fire must have gotten in his nose. The couple of coughs broke. His eyes burned. He pushed his fingertips against his eyelids, tugging them down like roller window shades, digging in hard enough to ache. His fingers went slick.  
  
Silence fell like a blanket of snow, just as cold. No admonishment. No scolding. No “Higgsbury, please collect yourself, dear. That’s quite unbecoming.” Only silence. Somehow that made everything worse.  
  
Water dripped through the slots between his fingers and slid in sticky drops down his wrist. He held his breath. He wouldn’t sniffle. Gritting his teeth held back sobs, but did nothing to keep his head from waterlogging with snot. He pushed his face further into his slimy palms.  
  
Something light as a withered autumn leaf touched his leg. He jolted. Dappled through the funhouse mirror haze of tears, Wickerbottom’s thin hand rested on his knee.  
  
Delicate. Like a sparrow’s foot. He stared through the gaps between his fingers. Blue veins crisscrossed like a roadmap through the top of her hand. Smooth skin over her knuckles. Clean. Fine wrinkles bunched around each joint in her fingers. Wilson bit his lip and rolled the meat back and forth between his teeth, clamping down harder and harder. Pain made a roundabout trip through his skull. It didn’t keep his eyes from overflowing.  
  
A drop of water fell. _Plat._ Next to Wickerbottom’s thumb. A dark circle bled into his trousers.  
  
“Don’t fret yourself, dearest.” Wickerbottom’s voice was as soft as a spring dawn’s cloud. Quiet. More gentle than he’d ever heard. She rubbed her thumb over the knoll of his knee and pressed, flattening creases in the threadbare fabric of his pants.  
  
Another droplet fell. Wilson swallowed. His heart throbbed.  
  
“I’m sure it may feel as though everyone conspires against you at times. Ours is a rather hostile situation, after all.” She spoke in a calm murmur, as though engaged in a dinner conversation about the benefits of reorganizing taxa. “But all of us here are on equal footing. We’re all wandering and doing what we can to survive in a dangerous place. None of us truly have any advantage over another. You aren’t the only one harboring the nagging worry that home is too far out of reach.”  
  
Too far out of reach. Out loud it sounded too final, like the _splack_ of the last nail in a coffin lid.  
  
Clothes rustled when she leaned closer. The small weight of her hand lifted from his knee and immediately pressed against his own hand that he clutched to his face. Her palms were dry and chapped. Cold. But light as a welcome breeze.  
  
His muscles went weak like old torn rubber. Suddenly he was tired, as though he’d stumbled into camp from a miles-long hike. He didn’t have enough strength to resist when she moved his hand away from his face. If she noticed it was hot and clammy with snot and tears, she had the tact to not stiffen or flinch. She curled her fingers around his and squeezed.  
  
He shut his eyes. They hurt. The glow of the fire was as blinding as white sunlight.  
  
“Tension will disappear.” Wickerbottom smoothed her thumb across the back of his hand, over the tendons that stood out in ridges. “We know that you meant no harm in what you did. It was reckless, certainly, and unnecessary. But it was far from malicious.”  
  
Wilson hitched up his shoulders and drew a breath. “Tell that to Miss Willow and the others.”  
  
“There’s no need. They know as well that you had no ill intent. We trust you more than that.” Wickerbottom squeezed his hand again. “What we have here is fortunate. In many accounts I’ve read, castaways finding themselves in groups can turn on one another in competition for resources. It’s difficult to sleep near the same firelight as a stranger. But our group has become so much more than tolerant strangers sharing food and shelter. We’ve grown to be friends; perhaps even a family of sorts.”  
  
Wilson lowered his head. Friends. Family . . . ? Disappointing friends hurt so much more deeply than disappointing strangers. The knot in his throat swelled.  
  
Strangers didn’t care. Strangers hadn’t listened to his boasts of knowledge and strangers wouldn’t expect him to know better. He could flaunt skill and experience and success to strangers and never have to prove himself in any facet. But friends knew him. They could watch as his boasts fell flat as cardboard and wonder why he made the choices that he did. Disappointment stung. Being a hindrance was worse.  
  
An ache settled like a stone in his chest.  
  
Oblivious, or aware of his thoughts, Wickerbottom went on. “You’re a bright young man. I’ve seen for myself your wit and innovation, and to be quite truthful . . . I have admired it at times. However impulsive and stubborn you may be, you’re immeasurably important in our group. You’re dear to us, Wilson.”  
  
The sentiment reeled through his head. His pulse thumped in his temples triple metre. Her words were so gentle and tender that a sigh or turn of his head could have snuffed them out of his ears. His hand went limp in hers. Dear to them. Important. She admired him. Dear to _her?  
_  
His last fraying thread of resolve snapped. The willpower damming his anguish crumbled. Tears that had been silent and slow rushed hot and fast, burning his eyes and cheeks and running in painful rivulets down his chin and neck and into his collar.  
  
He sobbed. Hiding it from Wickerbottom didn’t matter anymore. If she stared in ashen horror or recoiled, he couldn’t tell. She was a blur beside him, a haze of white and yellow through his melted glass glaze of water. He let his head hang. The water fell like angry rain, splotching over his pants where Wickerbottom’s hand had been.  
  
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. Brains and snot swam in his skull.  
  
“Oh, dear.” Wickerbottom’s voice was a thread of a whisper. Hushed and intense. “Deary, deary.” Over and over.  
  
Wilson took a tattered breath that came out in diced sobs. A chill fuzzed over him, crinkling like bugs boiling over his scalp and rippling down to his feet.  
  
Arms, thin as flaking twigs, circled around him. Wickerbottom folded him into an embrace, pinning his nose to her shoulder. Her cold hand buried in his hair.  
  
Wilson had never so readily accepted the freedom to cry. His thoughts scattered. His mind was numb. His last iota of strength and resolve fizzled. He melted in her arms. The words began to pour.  
  
“I feel like—like—that everyone depends on me.” Sobs minced his voice into ugly hiccups. “I’m responsible. I’m the one who’s done—who’s invented things to help us make it here. I’ve kept field journals and made the maps and drawn blueprints and—and it’s my job to get us back home. But I _can’t._ I try. I’ve tried so hard. It’s too much. I wish—I almost wish I’d never met you. Any of you. It didn’t hurt when I was alone, but now I’m responsible for everyone else and I—”  
  
“Wilson.” Nothing other than the slightest twinge of severity from Wickerbottom could have shaken Wilson from his spiel. “Wilson . . . Wilson, darling, don’t say any more.”  
  
Wilson clacked his teeth together. Sobs piled up in his throat. Wickerbottom smoothed his hair, riffling it between her fingers and pressing his head against her shoulder. Her gingham blouse scratched his cheek. It smelled of stale perfume. The dust of yellowed books. She was so thin. Would she bruise if he tucked his arms around her and crushed her close? But she was unwavering. He pushed his nose into her chest and screwed his eyes shut, emptying himself of snot-webbed sobs that strangled him.  
  
When had he last been touched? Touched with affection? Distant memories rolled through his mind like tumbleweeds. Had his mother—? No. Mother had always been cool and maintained. Distant. Mother didn’t give hugs or kisses. Father had clapped him on the shoulder sometimes. A couple of times, at least. Willow? The punches were friendly. A little too enthusiastic. Affectionate? Maybe.  
  
But tenderness. Caresses. Fingers in his hair, delicately tracing the strands that ruffled over his neck. Dipping beneath his collar. Nails rolling over his skin. A pleasant chill rose, fluttery like moth wings, prickling the hair on his arms. The gob in his throat choked him.  
  
“There, there, dear,” Wickerbottom soothed. “It’s brave of you to feel that you should take on the role of leading us to safety. Ever the gentleman, you are.” A hint of sternness as faint as watered-down lemonade crept into her tone. “But it’s unfair of you. It’s terribly unfair to the rest of us.”  
  
Wilson’s mind lurched. His heartbeat made his ribs vibrate like a window in an earthquake. Unfair—? But there wasn’t any twisting accusation or snarl or bite in her voice. She rocked him gently, leaning in the slightest of sways from side to side.  
  
“Each of us played our own part in getting here. And we all have sense in our own ways to find our way back. We won’t lounge about and make dandelion chains while waiting for you alone to find a way of escape. We don’t need to. You have a sharp mind, but we are no fools.”  
  
Heat surged into Wilson’s cheeks. “I never implied—”  
  
“Shh. Everyone here has a role of their own. None of us may be able to escape completely on our own, but we all have individual strengths to contribute to a common goal. You aren’t a savior. You aren’t a natural leader or the answer to a problem. But what you are is incredibly special. An integral part of things. We need you, dear. And I need you as well.”  
  
Wilson turned his head, cheek against Wickerbottom’s chest. He stared through the wobbling pillar of heat that billowed from the fire. The trees and bushes were blurs in the distance like the strokes of a Monet painting. Plaintive words scrolled through his mind in tangles like ribbons.  
  
_Thank you, Ms. Wickerbottom . . .  
  
I need you too.  
  
I need everyone here.  
  
I’m sorry.  
_  
Wickerbottom’s heart thudded against his ear. _Whump-hm. Whump-hm._ A calming rhythm. Pressure on his cheek. Slow and even. _Whump-hm._ He'd drift asleep soon. All he had to do was listen.  
  
Exhaustion weighed down his eyelids. It filled his head with dust and flour and clouds. He sank against Wickerbottom, breathing a long sigh that quivered through his nose and tightened his throat.  
  
“Everything will work out, darling.” Wickerbottom rested her chin on his head. Her voice murmured warm and sweet into his hair. “Put your mind at ease for now. Tomorrow will be better than today.”  
  
Tomorrow. His thoughts sifted, slow and light, powderpuffs of candy floss. She was right. She was always right somehow. Tomorrow would be better.  
  
Molten colors swam together, hazy like a sunset, blurring into a dream. Tomorrow he would greet Willow with cherry-picked pleasantries and a smile. She would squint at him, pondering, then say with typical Willowesque flair: “God, you look like a sick hyena. Wipe that smug grin off your face, won’t you? C’mon, old man, we’re having eggs for breakfast.”  
  
And she’d grab his hand and tote him toward the savory scents that wafted from the pot on the campfire, where everyone else was gathered. No sidelong glares. No scoffs. No accusations or tart remarks that sizzled with sarcasm or insinuation. They would tug him into the circle with resounding rounds of greetings; the offer of a plate and extra helpings. As though he’d always belonged.  
  
The crackling of the fire faded into a hum. Wilson relaxed. The thoughts grayed out. He breathed one last sigh of contentment.

* * *

  
Wickerbottom glanced down. Wilson’s shoulders rose and fell with leveled breaths, thick and sticky but altogether calm.  
  
She shook her head. His cracked voice repeated in a loop through her mind.  
  
Wilson had never been hesitant to share his thoughts, and a penny for each one was vastly overcharging. But when confronted with anything urging vulnerability, he skirted. He was like a reflection in water. There—there—inches away, then a hopeful touch shattered the illusion into skittering ripples with nothing behind it.  
  
Yet he'd collapsed in her arms and wept about his fears and shortcomings. He must have worried himself to exhaustion, all for the struggle of maintaining a role that nobody knew he’d assumed.  
  
She slid her hands up his arms, over the bulky rolled-up sleeves at his elbows, and squeezed his shoulders. How had he ever believed he could hold up the responsibility of everyone’s survival when his shoulders were too thin to hold up his own?  
  
Wilson sniffled in his sleep and swallowed. Like a lonely cat, he hid his face at the side of her neck. His breath was hot, seeping through her blouse.  
  
A twang of pity spurned her, twisting. There was little sense in crying. She’d always believed that. She’d always told herself the same.  
  
She folded one arm around him again, securing her hand at his waist. His suspender button dug into the side of her thumb, down into bone. She pressed him closer. His knee brushed hers. She moved. The heel of her slipper scraped against the birch log, knocking bark loose like crumbling paint.  
  
He was too small in her arms. A grown man, weather-rugged, nicked and scarred by sunburn, insect bites, and chemical stains. A survivor; just as they all were. There was nothing delicate about him. Yet tonight, sleeping against her with tears still staining his shirt, he was as fragile as a blown-glass bauble.  
  
She buried her fingers in his hair. Wiry strands spread between her fingers, stiffened with the sweat and grime of the day. Had he ever lain against someone else this way?  
  
She lowered her hand, smoothing downward, over his cold ear and to his cheek. His shadow of a beard prickled like the soft spines of a _Cleistocactus,_ scraping her fingertips the way a persistent cat’s tongue would.  
  
Was Wilson fond of cats? Perhaps he would have enjoyed her home, with the porcelain cats arranged on shelves and the tuxedo kitten and grizzled old tabby that loved to lounge on the sofa. One could pass blissful hours in the library at the back of the house, with the three windows spilling sunlight over the two red velvet chairs. Wilson shared her passion for the pursuit of knowledge. Countless books in her library would appeal to him. Tesla, Edison, Bell. If only someday she could invite him in to read, share tea, and muse together about the mysteries of the world.  
  
Her eyes went gritty behind her glasses. She blinked. How pitiful. Fantasies were pointless and spinning them out into cottony daydreams only frittered away precious moments. They accomplished nothing but to direct the mind to wistful “if-only”s that might never come to be. Time was better spent by achieving goals, not pining for ones out of reach.  
  
And yet . . . her mind wandered. She stroked Wilson’s cheek in lazy little circles until the scrape of his stubble against her knuckles dulled to a tingle that fizzed in her nerves. Thoughts wafted in misty colors that swept along a vague pang of nostalgia. How strange that a daydream, nothing more than constructed images and emotions cobbled together, could induce a sense of longing to return to that dream that had never happened.  
  
They could sit on the sun-faded burgundy loveseat in front of the hearth. She closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the fire that snapped and popped in front of her. If she held her breath and focused . . . if she concentrated, the campfire that warded off the night shadows here could be the cheerful golden one that crackled in the fireplace at home. The grass under her heels could be the plush fibers of the Persian rug.  
  
She lowered her head until her chin touched Wilson’s hair again. If she—if they were back home, the firelight would be dripping like honey down the fleur-de-lis wallpaper. A tall _Zantedeschia_ with angelic white trumpet blossoms stretched toward the ceiling beside her, filling the room with the earthy scent of moist soil and floral fragrance. The book lay heavy on her knees. Wilson, clean-shaven, perhaps still damp from bathing, reclined against her, contently immersed in _The Fantastic Inventions_ or _On the Origin_. He would smile as she played her fingers around the streaks of silver in his hair and asked, “What do you really think about the discovery of modern organisms in the Cambrian radiation?” simply to hear him talk. His excitement made warmth rustle through her like maple leaves in a humid breeze. The way his hands moved in animated gestures; how his eyes crinkled at the corners.  
  
She watched the fire through her lashes. Sequins of color surrounded the blaze. The forest loomed around her, leering and black and silent.  
  
She and Wilson both clung to unrealistic ideals. Urging him to release his grip on his dream of being the praised hero seemed right. After all, nobody sought a savior, and scientists didn’t don the burdensome armor of a shining knight. But if she could hold onto hers for awhile longer . . . .  
  
Wilson sighed against her shoulder. Warmth bled through her heart. That benign flutter trembled through her heart again, as gentle as lace ruffling over a polished mahogany floor. She closed her eyes, starbursts swirling like falling petals. Her fingers flattened against his cheek, pressing briefly. The remnants of tears moistened her fingertips, cool and gluey. With all the carefulness of adjusting weights on a balance, she tipped his head.  
  
Water still glinted on his clumped lashes. Flags of red stood out in his cheeks, lined with webs of capillaries beneath the freckles. Her fingers stiffened. Without his mouth pressed into that characteristic frown, bunching wrinkles between his eyebrows and plowing trenches into his forehead, he looked different. Gentler. Seemingly at peace.  
  
She stared. Shadows from the fire wavered over his face. A stray wisp of hair, dried into a curl, dangled over his brow. She reached; her fingers furled and lingered. No one else was present. None other than she and Wilson would remember. She skimmed her fingers across his forehead to push the piece of hair back.  
  
If only she remembered, that would be good enough.  
  
She cupped his rough cheek and lowered her head. An ache tugged at the vertebrae in her neck. She bent lower until only an inch of air separated her nose from his. His slow breaths ghosted across her face. Her hand slid down his cheek to his chin, her thumb trailing down his jawline, pulling at the stubble that crackled like rough carpet.  
  
His chapped lips parted when he sighed through his sleep in appreciation of a dream. Wickerbottom hesitated. A dart of agitation jolted her hand. With an inhale of resolve that creaked her ribs, she dipped her head and brushed her lips against his cheek.  
  
Her mouth went dry as leather. Bristly static, like millions of microscopic thorns, tingled in the kiss. Heat pricked her cheeks. Her thumb brushed his ear when she leaned back. The drone of cicadas oozed into a tinny ring. Silver halos drifted through her eyes. A perfectly normal response to a flood of epinephrine. A perfectly normal—  
  
She clutched his head to her shoulder, pressing him like a stamp against her, rocking him to keep a shudder from overtaking her. How odd that her eyes were so grainy and sore. She blinked hard, and everything around her went a few shades darker.  
  
Tomorrow would be easier. Just as she had told Wilson.  
  
If only tonight would last longer.

 


End file.
